The royal palace of Weidenbruck--the Neptunburg, as it is called,
after a leaden statue of the sea god which stands in its central
courtyard--is a Renaissance structure of considerable size and
dignity. Its main façade,--a pompous, Palladian affair of
superimposed pilasters, stone vases and floral swags,--fronts the
Königstrasse, a wide thoroughfare joining the northern suburbs with
the Cathedral Square. Internally, there is a fine set of
state-rooms, a florid chapel, and the famous muschel-saal, an
apartment decorated with shells, coral, pieces of amber, marble, and
porphyry, and other semi-precious material. It was into this
apartment, scintillating with light and colour, that Trafford found
himself ushered on his arrival at the royal domain.
General Meyer, resplendent in a pale blue and silver uniform and
sundry brilliant orders, received him and presented him to his wife,
a handsome lady of South-American origin and an ultra-Republican love
of finery. Saunders was there, also with his wife, the latter
beautiful and stately as a statue, in an empire gown of creamy green
with red roses at her breast. There was an old gentleman with a
billowy white moustache, and a young officer of the Guides. There
were the diplomatic representatives of France and England, and a bevy
of court ladies with the expensive paraphernalia of plumes, egrets,
and voluminous trains. The company was a decorative one, and the
setting sumptuous, only needing the sun of the royal presence to gild
the refined gold of the exhilarating scene.
Saunders took an early opportunity of drawing Trafford apart.
"Nervy, my boy," the former began, "the King, Meyer, and myself have
been having a little private conversation about you."
"A most interesting topic, to be sure."
"Most. The conclusion we arrived at was that you had been making an
idiotic ass of yourself."
"Details, dear flatterer?" demanded Trafford.
"This sister business!" expostulated Saunders. "Why, everybody knows
you arrived at the Hôtel Concordia by yourself, and without
expectation of a visit from any relative."
"Everybody knows it?" queried Trafford blandly.
"By everybody, I mean the police, who study most things, and
particularly the visitors' list at the 'Concordia.' The hall-porter
of that excellent hotel is one of Meyer's most trusted agents, and
there is not the slightest doubt that it was the Princess Gloria who
enjoyed the privilege of claiming you as a brother."
"A half-brother," corrected Trafford.
"A half-brother, then," growled Saunders. "Anyhow, it is established
beyond a doubt that you have helped the Princess by every means in
your power."
"Then we will admit what is universally known," said Trafford coolly.
"Only, I don't agree with your description of me as an idiotic ass.
I came out here for excitement, and as you don't seem willing to
provide me with it, I am finding it for myself. Besides, the
Princess is a splendid little person, and to cultivate her society is
the act not of an ass, but of a philosopher."
"That sort of philosophy leads to the Strafeburg," retorted Saunders.
"Be warned, old friend. I know more about this charming country than
you do. You have won the King's Prize. Wrap it in tissue paper and
take it by the midnight express to Vienna. There is excellent
skating to be had there--and you may come across your half-sister."
"My dear humourist," said Trafford, smiling and twirling his
moustache. "I have no further use for--half-sisters."
Saunders started in amazement, not at the words themselves, but at
their tone, and the twinkle that accompanied them.
"Nervy, Nervy Trafford," he said solemnly. "Do you suppose a
Schattenberg sets her cap at an American! If she wins a throne,--as
she may for all I know,--you will be put in a row with other gallant
dupes of her witchery, and you will be allowed to kiss her hand every
first and second Thursdays. Give it up, man," went on Saunders more
heartily. "Give up playing poodle-dog to beauty in distress. You
will get plenty of scars and very few lumps of sugar. Moreover, you
may take it from me that a sterner policy of suppression is being
pursued. There are important arrests impending."
"Important arrests!" echoed Trafford, laughing softly. "Why, I was
the means of spoiling one this afternoon. I was in the Strafeburg
with the Princess when Meyer turned up with foot and horse to arrest
the poor child. Not wishing to witness a pathetic scene, I unscrewed
the spikes of the Iron Maiden, and popped Gloria von Schattenberg
inside the barbarous contrivance. Needless to say, no one, not even
Meyer, thought of looking in such an impossible hiding-place. So you
see, my British friend, important arrests sometimes fail to come off."
"Sometimes, but not invariably," said a voice close by the American's
ear. Trafford shuddered rather than started, for he recognised the
acid tones of General Meyer, and he was getting used to finding that
gentleman near him when he believed him far away. But the words
depressed him, nevertheless, for they held a note of ruthless
certainty that smelled of damp walls and barred windows. He realised
that he had made an enemy, a personal enemy, who was not likely to
respect the liberty of a young foreigner who baulked his choicest
schemes.
"I stepped across the room to warn you of the King's entrance," went
on the General suavely. "His Majesty is on the point of entering the
chamber."
A door was flung open by liveried and powdered menials. The company
drew itself into two lines, and between them, smiling, portly,
debonnair, walked the big, half-pathetic, half-humorous figure of the
King. He bowed to right and left, murmuring conventional terms of
greeting to all and sundry.
To the American he said:
"I congratulate you heartily, Herr Trafford, on winning my skating
prize. I am a great admirer of the nation to which you have the
privilege to belong."
Trafford bowed, and took the King's hand, which was extended to him.
"To-morrow," went on the monarch, "I am going to Weissheim, land of
clean snow, bright suns, and crisp, invigorating air! Farewell,
then, to Weidenbruck, with its penetrating chilliness, its vile,
rheumatic fogs, and its viler and more deadly intrigues! Then hurrah
for ski and skate and toboggan, and the good granite curling-stone
that sings its way from crampit to tee over the faultless ice! What
say you, Saunders?"
"I say hurrah for winter sport, your Majesty, and a curse on fogs,
meteorological and political!"
Dinner was a meal of splendid dulness. Excellent viands, faultless
champagne, and a gorgeous display of plate were not in themselves
sufficient to counteract the atmosphere of well-bred boredom that sat
heavy on the company. The King made desperate efforts to sustain his
role of exuberant geniality, but his wonted spirits flagged visibly
as the evening wore on, and it was clear that the events of the
morning had left him depressed and heart-weary. Saunders, indeed,
chatted volubly to Meyer's better-half, a lady who talked politics
with a reckless freedom that was palliated by occasional flashes of
common sense. Meyer himself,--glass in eye, tasting each dish and
sipping each wine with the slow gusto of the connoisseur,--maintained
an epigrammatic conversation with Mrs. Saunders, whose ready tongue
had nearly as keen an edge as his own. But poor Trafford,--despite a
healthy appetite and an appreciation of his high honour,--was
enjoying himself but little. The lady whom he was privileged to sit
next to,--the Frau Generalin von Bilderbaum, _née_ Fräulein von
Helder, formerly maid of honour to the ex-Queen,--was a wife of the
General with the snowy moustache, and her sole topic of conversation
was her husband. She was a lady of immense proportions and a more
than corresponding appetite, and her devotion to her spouse would
have been more romantic, had she possessed features as well as
contours. During the meal Trafford was much enlightened as to the
loyal and devoted career of General von Bilderbaum and the digestive
capacities of an ex-maid of honour.
"The General fought with distinction in the trenches at Offen in '84,
and he took part also with great distinction in the hill fighting
round about Kurdeburg in '86. In '87----" Fortunately for Trafford
the flow of the worthy lady's recital was checked. A menial,
pompous, in plush and yellow braid, put his powdered head between him
and his persecutrix, whispering in his ear: "His Majesty will take
wine with you, sir."
Trafford looked up to the end of the table where the King sat. King
Karl, with raised glass and a resumption of his genial smile, was
endeavouring to catch his eye.
Trafford raised his glass and flushed. It is not given to every man
to be toasted by a reigning sovereign, and Trafford felt a sense of
pride that surged up in his bosom with no little strength. Then the
incongruity of his position struck him. There was he, eating the
King's food, and drinking the King's wine, and at the same time
pledged to help and abet his most relentless enemy. Nay, more, he
had sworn to abuse his hospitality that evening by gleaning any facts
which might help the rebellious Princess to continue free to work out
her ambitious and subversive propaganda. And now he was signalled
out for especial honour, and he blushed, not because the eyes of the
ladies regarded him with frank admiration, not because Meyer looked
sideways at him with sneering inscrutability, but because his host,
the King, regarded him with a glance that was all welcome and good
fellowship. And in the emotion and excitement of the moment Trafford
recalled Saunders' favourable opinion of King Karl, rather than the
Princess Gloria's sinister suggestion of the torture-chamber. But
just as, with mixed feelings and mantled cheek, he threw back his
head to empty his glass, a noise from outside attracted his
attention. It was a low, humming noise at first, with sharp notes
rising from its depths. But it grew louder, and something in its
swelling vibrations checked the glass untasted in his hand. Men and
women looked at each other, and the conversation ceased
automatically. Louder the noise grew--louder, till it was like the
roaring of a great wind or the snarling of innumerable wild beasts.
And yet, besides its note of wrath and menace, it held a sub-tone of
deep, insistent purpose. Fair cheeks began to blanch, and an air of
pained expectancy hung heavy on the throng. For there was no longer
any possibility of mistaking its import. It was the hoarse murmur of
a mob, wherein the mad fury of beast and element were blended with
human hatred, and dominated by human intelligence.
Meyer sipped his wine composedly, but his face was a sickly green.
General von Bilderbaum flushed peony, and Trafford felt big pulses
beating in different parts of his body. The situation was
intolerable in its frozen anxiety. With an oath the King rose to his
feet, threw back the great purple curtains that masked the windows,
and flung open the tall casements. A redoubled roar of voices flowed
in with a stream of icy air. The ladies shuddered in their
_décolleté_ gowns, but Trafford,--heedless alike of frost and
etiquette,--was on the balcony in an instant by the King's side,
looking down on the great street. The other men followed suit
immediately, and the sight that met their gaze was a stirring one.
The broad Königstrasse, which ran past the palace, was packed with a
dense and swaying throng.
In the midst of a bevy of dark-coated police walked a tall figure,
handcuffed, bareheaded, his clothes torn as if he had been taken with
violence, yet retaining withal an air of fierce scorn and tameless
pride. On each side of the police tramped companies of infantry with
fixed bayonets. At the head and at the rear of the little procession
rode formidable detachments of the King's Dragoons. And surging
behind, menacing, furious, determined,--yet held in check by the cold
logic of steel and bullet,--pressed and swayed and shouted a great
mass of turbulent humanity.
"They are arresting Father Bernhardt," drawled General Meyer, who
surveyed the scene through his eye-glass and with a slight smile.
"This is an illuminating example of the straightforward policy of
repression."
"At any rate, he is being arrested," said the King. "Under your
system he was always on the point of being arrested. Once inside the
Strafeburg, Father Bernhardt will not derive much assistance from his
noisy friends out here."
"Once inside the Strafeburg--yes!" sneered Meyer. "But there is
still a quarter of a mile to be traversed; and unless I mis-read the
temper of the good Weidenbruckers, there will be some sort of attempt
at a rescue in a minute or two."
"Why don't they fire on the mob?" spluttered out General von
Bilderbaum, stifling a fine military oath in his billowy moustache.
"Because I ordered the Colonel commanding the Dragoons not to fire
unless a rescue was actually being attempted," answered Meyer.
"Revolutions are stupid things, and are best avoided when possible."
"I'd fire on the brutes if I were in command," murmured the old
General with suppressed fierceness, as the crowd pressed close at the
heels of the last file of Dragoons.
Hardly had he spoken when a harsh order rang out above the growling
of the mob, the rear rank swung their horses round, and with a click
of carbines a volley rang out into the icy air. A bullet struck the
stonework of the palace, not far from the King's head, for the
soldiers had fired purposely in the air. Karl never even winced.
His features wore a look of pained distress that no personal danger
could accentuate. General Meyer quietly took cover behind a friendly
pilaster, but Trafford,--wildly excited by the novel scene,--watched
eagerly the quick panic of the mob. Helter-skelter they ran,
tumbling over each other in a frenzied effort to avoid the stern
reprisal they had so ruthlessly invited.
"A whiff of grape shot!" said Saunders. "A little firmness, a little
sternness even, and a deal of trouble is saved. Another volley in
the air, half a dozen executions, and a few sharp sentences of
imprisonment, and a desperate situation will give way to normal
tranquillity."
"I believe you are right," sighed the King.
"I don't," said Meyer; and as he spoke the crowd came back again,
surging and rebellious, shouting with rage and shame and furious
determination.
"See! a woman is leading them on!" cried the young officer of the
Guides.
"So I perceive," said Meyer, turning to Trafford, who stood next him.
"It is the young lady whose arrest I strove to bring about this
afternoon in the Strafeburg. It would perhaps have been better for
her if my purpose had been fulfilled."
Trafford drew in his breath and grasped the hand-rail of the iron
balcony with a vise-like grip.
"They won't fire on her!" he said in a choked voice.
"I think so," said Meyer smoothly. "A rescue is certainly being
attempted."
For a moment it seemed that the torrent of frenzied humanity would
bear down and engulf the thin ranks of soldiery; but once again the
rear rank swung their horses round, once again there was a precise
ripple of small arms, and once again there was the spluttering crack
of levelled carbines.
Trafford, white as a sheet, trembling with suppressed emotion, shut
his eyes. When he opened them the compact mass of the crowd had
melted into scattered groups fleeing for dear life in every
direction. Only, on the trampled snow of the Königstrasse, lay a
number of dark and prostrate objects, some feebly moving, some stark
still. Trafford turned violently from the balcony and entered the
dining-room with the intention of making an instant departure.
Wild-eyed, heedless of good manners, court conventions, or everything
indeed but a dominating desire to break out into the stricken
thoroughfare, he dashed madly through the great room. In the doorway
a hand, a cool feminine hand, checked him, and he found himself
looking into the unemotional grey eyes of Mrs. Robert Saunders.
"Where are you going?" she asked firmly.
"Into the street."
"Why?"
"Murder has been done. Someone may need succour."
"The wounded will be looked after," said Mrs. Saunders calmly, "and
by more capable hands than yours. Your departure now without a
formal leave-taking of his Majesty would produce the worst
impression. As my husband's friend, your conduct would reflect on
him. I must ask you to be prudent."
Trafford's eyes flamed furiously at the maddening check. His whole
system was quivering with the excitement of the situation and the
intense desire to find relief for tortured nerves in vigorous action.
There was a strange pain, too, in his heart, a queer, stabbing
sensation that he neither analysed nor understood. All he knew was
that the Palace walls cramped him like a narrow cell, that he needed
air,--the air of the Königstrasse. And yet nothing short of rude
violence could have brushed aside the well-developed young lady who
blocked his exit with such exasperating _vis inertiæ_. With a really
fine effort of self-control he mastered himself.
"I will be prudent," he said bitterly.
"Thank you."
"It would never do," went on Trafford ironically, "for your husband
to fall out of favour with the humane King Karl. He might wake to
find himself in the dungeons of the Strafeburg;" and with a polite
bow he returned through the dining-room to the balcony.
"Well," he asked of Saunders, "does peace reign at Weidenbruck?"
"There seems to be trouble in the direction of the Grass-market,"
replied Saunders, pointing to a quarter from which distant sounds of
shouting were faintly audible. Almost as he spoke, a red glare lit
up the heavens with a rosy flickering glow.
"Incendiarism!" muttered old General Bilderbaum, feeling
instinctively for his sword.
The King whispered something in General Meyer's ear.
The Commander-in-Chief nodded.
"I gave the order ten minutes ago, sire," he replied. "The policy of
straightforward repression shall be given a full trial."